Six Weeks
by Ash Veran
Summary: They are the siblings of the sand, united in theory. But in practice, they are a fractured family and that has never been more clear since the failed invasion six weeks ago. They are silent, for a time, because six weeks mark the beginning of some kind of change and some kind of a lessening of fear. Hopefully.


**This is my first, and likely my last, Naruto fanfiction. I find Gaara an intense, intriguing character and as such simply had to write something that centered around the sand sibs after Gaara's Naruto-kicked-my-ass therapy.**

**Disclaimer: Naw, of _course_ I own Naruto.**

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It was a strange, tense new world.

Temari was quiet. Kankuro was quiet. Gaara was quiet.

And none of them looked at each other.

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Kankuro was first to crack. He was a gregarious jokester when he didn't have to be serious and did like Temari's company, when she wasn't being the bossy older sister. Of course, the lack of bossing was starting to bother him because that was what his sister did—she bossed.

"So."

But there wasn't much to say.

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Temari came around. She became her old self, the mothering self that made sure her brother cooked balanced meals for them all and did his laundry. As per usual, she tread lightly around Gaara, doing his laundry and gently encouraging him to eat, trying to coax a word out of his mouth.

Gaara was the silent one, as serious as they came, and homicidal. But there was a difference, since that vague, mysterious apology in the forest outside Konoha. It was a big difference. For once, she couldn't locate him by the scent of his bloody sand. In four weeks, four weeks in which he'd spent his days outside of the village, out on the dunes, doing who knew what, his sand had stopped smelling like old blood. For once, nobody was dead.

Gaara hadn't spoken to either of them in four weeks and his eyes were as blank as glass marbles the one time she'd seen him long enough to get a good look. And he'd seemed thinner.

"He's never been like this." Kankuro muttered, as their younger brother slipped past them, looking nothing less than ominous in his black clothing, skin starkly pale against the black markings around his eyes and the vividly bloody red hair.

Temari chewed her lip. "I don't think he's eating enough."

"What are we supposed to do?"

Her shoulders slumped. There was no answer to that question. There had never been an answer, to so many questions, and most of those questions were about Gaara.

But things were changing, since that Uchiha and the blonde jinchuuriki and the apology and their (terror-inducing) brother waking in the hospital and the funeral for the Kazekage (because he hadn't really been much of a father) that nobody in their right mind had even vaguely suggested that Gaara attend.

It had been four weeks and nobody was dead. Gaara had shown up at the funeral, in a sense, watching the proceedings from a rooftop, every man and woman and shinobi and kunoichi and child had been ready to flee from Gaara of the sand. In four weeks, the only sand that stirred with threat was that brought by the winds, not by Gaara.

Temari took a breath. "We have to do something." Her teeth worried her lip. "We should have done something a long time ago. We're his siblings."

"Because father dearest," Kankuro's sarcasm, his hatred, was biting, "ever let us be Gaara's siblings? He offered me the mission twice."

Temari flinched. There was only one mission that needed no name. She'd been offered it, too, and had to go on the brutal missions that were punishment for turning down the mission.

"How many?" Kankuro asked, soft, because he was her brother and he knew his sister.

"Three times."

His teeth ground, loudly enough to be heard, but he didn't speak. There was no answer good enough for the question that hung heavy in the air.

"Train?" Temari offered. Training would bleed off their anger, their tension, and maybe—just maybe—help them think. Approaching Gaara required thinking. Approaching Gaara also required a great deal of courage, and they needed to work it up. His withdrawal hadn't made him less terrifying.

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He needed to let out the rage. He didn't think anybody realized—anybody but Naruto, that boy from Konoha who also holds a demon—just how much rage he kept bottled away, out of sight and under iron control, only unleashed when he is alone among the dunes, when he can make his own sandstorms. Where he can howl at the moon until his throat is raw and Temari isn't bothering him about eating and Kankuro isn't being stupid as usual.

(Even before Naruto, he'd kept the rage on a leash, though not so tight as the new leash.)

He can be alone with his rage on the dunes. The dunes have never betrayed him, have never rejected him, and they are quiet as his rage subsides and he can start to think—Naruto has given him a lot to think about.

Naruto, the boy with the demon—the kyuubi, supposedly the worst of them all. The boy that everyone in Konoha (or close enough) hates, simply because he is a jinchuuriki. Gaara knows hate, and knows that hatred stems from fear. And yet Naruto is determined to prove that he can be the best, that he can be a ninja for Konoha to be proud of, that he will protect his 'precious people' at all costs.

He has much to think about.

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"Gaara."

His head jerks at the unexpected call, eyes flicking to Temari briefly before flicking away. That unfamiliar thing (guilt, he's named it) is bubbling up.

"Gaara, you need to eat something." She chews her lip nervously as she speaks, stuffing away as much of her fear as she can.

She's being bold and he can't stop the tiniest upwelling of surprise that makes him look at her again. She's nervous, shifting her weight, chewing her lip, but her nerves are well-hidden. "Why do you care?" He spits, caustic.

She swallows. "I'm your sister."

_She never cared before_, Shukaku whispers.

Gaara shakes his head, too-long hair drifting into his eyes, and his indifferent expression suddenly hints at a scowl. Temari starts as his sand swirls violently around him. When it settles, he's gone and she's trembling, just a little, sinking into a chair.

Kankuro shows up, noting the bits of sand on the floor, Temari sitting, and grips her shoulder, face impassive. There is a long silence.

"We have to keep trying."

A nod.

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The fifth week passes and still no one is dead of Gaara-related causes. He has eaten one meal—that they've seen, Kankuro reminds himself—and he is still mostly living between his room and the dunes. Kankuro wonders just how long Gaara hasn't been eating, since he can see just how bony his brother's wrists have gotten.

Their tries are getting them somewhere, though, since they've seen Gaara, and their brother has reacted—with a notable lack of death threats. The blank eyes, though, they're worse than the death threats.

And that apology bothers him, too, that vague _I'm sorry_ that Gaara hasn't elaborated on. Or spoken of since.

But Kankuro can be patient. Patience is important, especially in a place as unforgiving as the desert. And in a house with a father who didn't act like a father and a little brother who was forced into the mold of a monster.

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It's the sixth week and his siblings follow him into the desert. He grinds his teeth, but tones down the rage of his training, suspicious of their motives. He can't help the suspicion. Suspicion has kept him alive for six years, suspicion and the sand that haunts his footsteps.

Though he did recognize that there had been a great deal of change.

"How're ya doing?"

Gaara pondered the question, unsure if he should respond. Six weeks has felt like an eternity, and he is finished with the most basic of his thoughts. Then he realized his siblings were waiting for an answer. "I am fine."

Temari's smile is timid, Kankuro's grin bearing an edge of fright. But they are there and the expressions are genuine, concealing no ill intent.

It was a start, he supposed.

_Kill them!_ Shukaku roared inside his head_. Kill anyone!_

_No. _

He felt something that could have been peace, despite Shukaku raging inside his head, trying to goad him. A breath, just a bit long and heavy, passed lips chapped by harsh sun, wind, and sand. "I am fine." He repeated.


End file.
